


caged in this tired body

by mysilenceknot



Category: Glee
Genre: Bullying, Canon Compliant, Depression, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2098443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysilenceknot/pseuds/mysilenceknot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Depression isn't always quantifiable.<br/>Kurt struggles with the urge to die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	caged in this tired body

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place during season two and is canon compliant up through Special Education. Originally posted in 2011.  
> Warnings for descriptive thoughts of suicide and self-harm, along with references to bullying and homophobia. There's also some pretty casual ableism.  
> Title comes from the House of Heroes song [ Field of Daggers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f9bxbq9A9ls).

Kurt Hummel never fantasized about his funeral. 

—

_There were so many ways to make a car crash look like an accident. He could just let go of the steering wheel and let the car veer on its own, maybe moving into the opposite lane on the freeway until it was finally stopped by another vehicle rushing away from Lima. He could “lose his grip” on an icy morning and run off a bridge, letting the car fall into cold, dark, deep water. He could hit the gas when approaching a stop sign and turn just enough so the wheels went up on a curb and the front of his Navigator collided with a tree._

_It had to have been an accident – Kurt did look rather tired earlier during class. Maybe he fell asleep at the wheel. Oh, what a shame._

—

Kurt carefully drove home from school. It had been a comparatively good day – the jocks only caught him with a slushie once and he’d only been pushed into lockers during three passing periods. He’d received a 96 on his French essay and Mr. Schue had promised that all songs in Glee for the week would be group numbers. 

Yet, despite how well things had gone, Kurt was completely worn out. Having one good day meant that the next few days would be even worse. It meant that he needed to be extremely prepared for everything the bullies would throw at him tomorrow and the thought made him want to cry. It wasn’t fair that he felt alone in Glee club and that the bruises on his arms were getting larger. It wasn’t fair that doing well in French got him mocked by his classmates. None of it was fair and Kurt wanted to escape. 

A blaring horn and flashing headlights jerked Kurt out of his musings back into reality. He swerved back into his lane from where he had been drifting into the occupied right lane and cursed. Wouldn’t it be his luck to get into a car accident? For a split second, the thought thrilled him. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought about his death – he couldn’t help wishing to be gone or dead when his new clothes were stained and his books were scattered all over the hallway. But this rush, this feeling that the idea of ending his life on his own terms gave him, was something new. A car crash was always a tragedy and the local news would spend the next week reminding viewers to be careful on the roads. And there were so many ways it could look like an accident.

Kurt felt sick to his stomach as a wave of guilt rushed through his heart. Suicide? He couldn’t, he wouldn’t do something like that, especially with the risk of injuring someone else. What if he hit a family and killed a child? What if he caused someone to lose their mother? What if he didn’t die in the accident and had to live with the fact that he killed someone else? There was also always the chance that he would just end up disabled from a car accident, like Artie, and that wouldn't be an improvement on how things currently were. Plus, suicide was for cowards, for pathetic people. Despite what the kids at school said about him, Kurt Hummel was not weak. He continued to drive home, slightly shaken.

—

_Hanging was always an option. The important thing would be finding a place high enough to hang from that also wouldn’t break due to his weight. Light fixtures, therefore, were almost certainly out of the question. It would be easy to create the noose, maybe using something from his closet: a neck, a belt, a scarf. There were also plenty of ropes and wires in his dad’s garage. It wouldn’t be too difficult to learn how to make a sturdy knot, one that wouldn’t slip once he stepped off the chair, one that could press just right against his windpipe and help cut off airflow._

_There would be no doubt in the mind of whoever found him that it was deliberate. His body swaying slightly in the darkened closet: pale, lifeless, and finally at peace._

—

Kurt didn’t know what he’d do if his dad never woke up. The thought of waking up to a phone call from an apologetic doctor or hearing the heart monitor flatline as he clutched his father’s hand was almost too much to handle. Memories of his mother no longer made his heart ache and the broken dresser didn’t leave him in tears, but his father was everything he’d ever known. There was no other positive constant in his life, nothing else keeping him motivated enough to keep going day after day. And with his father gone…

No. His dad was going to be okay. He couldn’t entertain such thoughts because it just brought even more negative energy and adding negative energy could make his father’s condition worse and his dad was not going to die. No way.

Kurt slowly climbed out of Mr. Schue’s car and walked towards his dark, empty house. He wasn’t stable enough to drive on his own, so he’d been accepting rides from concerned friends. They’d come to his house so he could exchange clothing – he was staying at Mercedes’ house when he wasn’t at school or at the hospital. His own home was too still, yet too alive with memories for him to stay there.

In his room, Kurt began pulling out tops and pants, mentally organizing combinations for the next few days. All thoughts about how meaningless and insignificant his wardrobe was while his dad’s life was on the line were pushed away as he arranged the clothing on his bed. Currently, he had very little control over what was going on, even though he was trying to find ways to help his dad. He was a walking emotional wreck, unable to keep himself from breaking down in class. The bullies still hadn’t backed off, even though virtually everyone at school knew what had happened. How he dressed was one thing he could be in complete command of.

He froze while going through his drawer of scarves, eyes welling as he pulled a plaid orange one from the back corner. It was a surprise gift from his dad last year and it was possibly the ugliest item he owned. Kurt remembered his dad eventually joining him in hysterical laughter after the gift was opened, because as thoughtful as the gesture was, there was no way he’d be caught dead in it. The item had been in the drawer ever since, something that caused him to smile fondly as he got ready for his day.

The scarf was thick and study, knitted from strong yet unexpectedly soft strands of yarn. He squeezed it in his hands and clutched it to his chest as he began sobbing. This wasn’t fair. His dad was the strongest, most amazing person Kurt knew and he was lying in a coma and all Kurt could do was wait to see what happened next. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t want to live anymore if his dad wasn’t there to tell him stupid stories at dinner, to pat him on the back when he helped out in the garage, to wish him good luck before school each morning.

He could do it. He could take this scarf, this wonderfully terrible reminder of his dad and end things if necessary. It wouldn’t be hard to find time alone in the event of his dad’s death and Kurt figured it wouldn’t take very long for a lack of oxygen to his brain to stop his heart. A surprisingly morbid thought, Kurt supposed, but he was exhausted and everything hurt. The world was still moving with his dad in the hospital and would keep on moving if he dad didn’t make it, no matter how Kurt wanted it to stop. It could also continue moving without him.

A horn honked outside. Right, Mr. Schue was waiting. Kurt folded the scarf back up and dropped it back into the dresser. His dad was going to be okay – there was no reason to think about the alternative. Besides, he knew he’d be letting his dad down if he killed himself. He was a Hummel and the Hummels were strong, were fighters. They didn’t quit for any reason. 

—

_Slitting one’s wrists was such a cliché. So many people cut horizontally across that tender flesh trying to evade reality, when it would have been much more effective to cut somewhere closer to a major artery. Making several vertical cuts across his upper arm would increase the blood flow, decreasing the amount of time it took for his heart to stop. So many sharp items were easily obtainable, from the knife he used to slice fresh bread to the dangerously pointy end of his new compass for trig. Crimson liquid flowing down his arms, pooling on the floor, would contrast with the sight of his white skin. It’d be quite a pain to clean up that mess and odds are the bloodstains would never completely fade. At least then he wouldn’t be forgotten._

_There was no way to make it look like an accident. Was that a good thing?_

—

Kurt stood under the hot spray of his shower, scrubbing furiously at the dark ink on his arm. He had gotten into the habit of using class time to use the bathroom and pick things up from his locker because walking down the hall was dangerous enough when he was on the move. Kurt closed his eyes, not trying to hold back his tears anymore, but trying in vein to forget what the vicious scrawl said. He should have known that safety during class would only last so long, and he shouldn’t have been caught so off guard by the two jocks who’d pushed him against the locked janitor’s closet. His screams for help did manage to attract the attention of the new substitute teacher, who, despite being dressed in ridiculous Argentinean clothing managed to scare the boys off, but by that time his shirt had already been ripped and the beginning of what was supposed to read “faggot” was marked on his skin.

He’d skipped Glee to get home before his dad had a chance to, not having the energy to deal with their sympathetic looks — if they bothered to notice that something was wrong with him, that is. Kurt didn’t leave the shower until the water ran cold and his tears stopped flowing.

It wasn’t until he’d begun rubbing lotion onto his body that he noticed what’d happened. In his frustration he had managed to not only scrub away the slur, but also a top layer of skin. Kurt stared in horror at the raw pink flesh, hissing slightly when he let one finger graze against the area.

There was no way he could explain this to his dad. There was no way he could explain this to anyone, and while it hadn’t hurt in the shower, his arm was now throbbing.

It was grounding to have a physical pain to focus on. Something tangible that could be seen as a reason to burst into tears, a reason to be so upset. Something much stronger than the never-ending dreariness in his mind. Was this why people cut? Because it hurt so much to even breathe and they needed something other than their fucked up lives to pay attention to? Could cutting be his coping mechanism?

Yes, he had hurt himself. But it was an accident and the wound wouldn’t scar. No one had to know. That was rather different from bringing out a razor to willingly slice through flesh. Cuts took much longer to heal than scrapes and he had seen girls at school with the tell-tale marks, just barely lighter than their skin. He had enough marks on his aching body – why add to the pain he was popping painkillers for?

However, cutting would be something he could control. It was taking more and more time each day to get out of bed in the morning and Kurt dreaded the day his dad commented on the rapidly visible weight he was losing. More and more of his clothes were getting stained by food dye to the point where he’d wondered out loud if he should start coordinating with the flavors of the week. 

There was also the worry that he would cut too deep one day – why was he worried about that? Wouldn’t it be a relief to finally stop worrying, to hurt once more and be done? At this point, a day didn’t go by without him musing about how he could kill himself, but dying due to blood loss had never been appealing.

A door slamming from above jerked Kurt out of his spiraling thoughts. He tugged on his clothes slowly, thinking up conversations to have with his dad that would avoid any questions about what was really going on. His arm was a great distraction, but he wasn’t going to resort to self harm. There were too many risks, too many ways that things could go wrong. If his dad found out then he’d be sent to therapy, receiving another dirty label to add to “gay” and “disappointment.” No thank you.

—

_It would be perfect. Pills were easy – just swallow them and let everything stop. He’d have to make sure that no one was going to be home for a while so there’d be enough time to let his body completely shut down before he was found. He could die looking perfect, with his hair in place and his clothes clean and nice. He could die relaxed, not thrashing as the air left his body, not vomiting from the effects of a toxin burning his windpipe and stomach, not in extreme pain from his fractured spine or broken neck._

_He could lie down in bed and enter an endless sleep. Simple._

—

Kurt was done. He lay in his bed, clutching a damp pillow with one hand and a bottle of Tylenol with the other. It’d been less than half an hour since his dad had come in with a glass of water and the pamphlet for Dalton. Burt had held him tightly as he continued to sob over how unfair this all was, and then promised to get Finn out of the house while Burt took Carole out for dinner and a movie. He was alone in the house and absolutely drained.

There were no more tears left within him to cry and the pills he’d taken hadn’t done enough to ease the aching in his head. Kurt sat up and unscrewed the bottle, pouring two more white tablets into his hand before quickly swallowing them down. He’d forgotten to buy a new bottle of Advil, but in the wedding madness, his dad hadn’t noticed the Tylenol missing from the bathroom cabinet. It was so tempting to take more.

He was drowning. Every day was like being in a rowboat during a storm, where no matter how hard he tried to paddle his pathetic boat to reach the safety of land, he’d capsize into the sea of his mind. The stupidest things sent him down on a spiral of thoughts that part of him would insist weren’t true, about how he was a worthless, pointless, fuckup who shouldn’t expect to be happy because he didn’t deserve it. All criticisms, even small ones like his dad pointing out that he should make sure to tie the bread bag after he’d finished pulling out slices for French toast make him want to run to his room and cry under the covers for hours because he couldn’t do anything right, he’d never do anything right, why didn’t he just _die_? He’d go deeper and deeper into the murky water, struggling to swim back up with little success. And he had no more energy, simple as that.

Kurt peered into the half empty bottle. Why not be done with it all and just take the rest? His head ache would stop and his dad could go on a well-deserved honeymoon and Karofsky wouldn’t have to worry so much about being outed. He’d be doing everyone a favor by killing himself. He was tired of fighting every day against the world over something that he couldn’t change about himself. Standing up for himself had ended up in disaster, so why bother trying?

The longer Kurt stared into the white container, the louder his mind screamed. _Just pour the pills out and do it, stop being such a coward. Accept that you drew the short straw in life and take matters into your own hands. Are you really a pussy like the jocks at school say you are, is that why you’re still breathing?_

And yet, a smaller voice pleaded with him. _Put the bottle away._

He couldn’t do it. His dad was finally happy and he couldn’t screw that up anymore than he already had. He had friends who loved him and a guy he barely knew willing to drive two hours to stand up for him. He had a brother. Things were shitty and maybe he’d change his mind tomorrow, but things were going to get better, right? A honeymoon wouldn’t be very fun if you’d just buried your son and killing himself now would let the people he was running away from have the ultimate victory. Part of him wished he could just completely stop caring about them because caring hurt, but the stupid act of caring kept him a little motivated to keep going. He couldn’t do it, not yet. Sniffing, Kurt screwed the bottle shut, dropping it back into the nightstand drawer and reaching to grab his cell phone.

Apparently he wasn’t done crying for the night.

—

Rachel was such a dramatic person – of course she’d imagine how extravagant her funeral would be. Knowing her, the cause of death in these fantasies was something poetic and tragic, something like cancer or sacrificing her life for a child’s safety. It wouldn’t be something probable, especially since she needed to win a Tony Award first. It wouldn’t be on her own terms, it would be her life unfairly stolen when she was in her prime, when she still had so much time to make the world a better place. 

Kurt sat in the common room, watching Pavarotti hop around his cage while his feathers fell. Kurt knew he wasn’t okay, knew that the high from the Warblers making it to Regionals would only last for so long, knew that he’d be back in his room soon enough crying and wanting it to end. He didn’t know if things with Blaine would ever be more than the friendship they were starting and he wasn’t sure how much he really wanted it to be, how much he was willing to put himself on the line. All Kurt knew was right now he was fine with existing.

Kurt Hummel never fantasized about his funeral.

Today was not the day to start. 


End file.
